


drinks on me

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: Brienne is waiting for her date. Jaime is so not interested.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **JB Week '16, Day 3: Protection**
> 
> A thousand thanks to my wonderful beta, Isy.

Jaime propped his elbow on the burgundy pleather booth, pen tapping pointedly against a thin pad scribbled over with mostly nonsense—an Uncle Emmon, 2 Sunset Sea summers, father’s favorite (no onions). The current page was blank but for the faded green lines he routinely ignored when scribbling orders. 

“Water, no lemon?” he repeated. “You don’t want, I don’t know, a  _ meal _ ?”

The girl in the booth shrunk away nervously. At least she tried to; she was too tall, and Jaime didn’t know why she bothered. Her knees jarred the underside of the table so hard that she probably came away with splinters. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she managed to shake her head. Teeth clamped onto her plump lower lip and she flushed, looking away to shred a corner of the  _ Dragonknight’s Adventures _ activity sheet that came with every menu. 

Jaime rolled his eyes. It wasn’t unusual for customers to waste time making eyes at him, but this one was so painfully plain, trussed up in a faded pink dress that clearly did nothing for her even when it fit properly, that teasing her felt like playing keepaway from Tyrion. It wasn’t fun if he was the only one laughing.

Jaime gestured to the mostly empty booths around them. “I can kick you out for a paying customer, you know. It wouldn’t do for Chataya’s to go under just because you can’t grasp the concept of a restaurant.”

Her head hit his notepad in her haste to glare at him. “I’m waiting for someone.” 

Jaime rested the order pad on the top of her braid, pen  _ rat-a-tat-tapping _ against it. “Ah,” he said mildly as she tried to duck away, “of course. In that case, order coffee.”

Her brows furrowed. It did nothing to improve her looks. “I don’t like coffee.” 

“No?” He affixed an innocent expression on his face. “Isn’t that what people get when they’re pretending they weren’t stood up?”

Red flooded her face, washing it clean of freckles, and her fist crumpled the coloring sheet in her fist. She jerked around to face the wall, shoulders stiff. 

Jaime pushed off the booth with a sigh. “Sorry,” he admitted, “that was rude. I’m sure your date will be here any minute.”

He didn’t intend it to sound sarcastic, but she heard it anyway. “Just  _ leave _ ,” she demanded, sounding oddly more vulnerable than she had when she was stuttering. 

The retort died on his lips.  _ She doesn’t think he’s coming either _ , Jaime realized. He stuffed the notepad into his back pocket, frowning.  _ And small wonder. Huge, horse-faced, and too stupid to realize this was probably a joke from the start. _

Alayaya brushed past him, an average-looking guy in tow. Jaime watched as the tall girl raised her head hopefully, only to collapse back into her corner when the hostess led the guy to the bar. Jaime disappeared into the kitchens before the freckle-faced girl could notice him frowning at her.

Tyrion found him swirling milk into hot chai tea. His brother raised an eyebrow at the half-assed loops blooming on the dark surface. “Don’t you usually drink coffee?”

“One of us needs a healthy liver,” Jaime replied lightly. He shook a healthy amount of cinnamon onto the foam and set the mug beside  _ one water, no lemon _ . “It’s not for me.”

“You seem to have forgotten to put it in the system,” his brother said wryly. “I should stop not paying you.”

Jaime used his palm to wipe the film of cinnamon from the counter and wiped his hands on his jeans, grinning at Tyrion. “I didn’t forget. I’m proving a point.”

“To whom?”

“A customer.”

“A  _ female _ customer?” Tyrion asked archly.

Jaime rolled his eyes. He levered the tray onto one hand and headed for the door. “Do women ever  _ actually _ go home with you over a free latte?”

“They would if I looked like you,” his brother retorted, sounding a little disgruntled. “Anyway, how do you expect me to make a significant enough ROI to impress Father if we  _ both _ start sacrificing drinks to every pair of legs that walks through the door?”

Jaime remembered how Freckles’ knees had knocked into the table when he made fun of her order.  _ Legs, indeed _ . 

“I’m proving a point,” he said again, pressing his back against the swinging door. He paused. Chataya’s was Tyrion’s first major enterprise. It wouldn’t do to undermine his brother’s authority in front of the kitchen staff. 

Tyrion made a show of waving his brother from the kitchen. Jaime grinned, escaping with his spoils. A stool clattered noisily behind the swaying door, and Tyrion’s curly mop appeared in the order window, mismatched eyes dancing with amusement.

Despite pitying looks from the other patrons, Freckles’ freckles had reasserted themselves by the time Jaime returned to her table. Paying no mind to the voyeurs behind him, he slid the chai tea latte in front of her with a flourish.

She blinked at the mug like it was a question on an exam. A question in High Valyrian. “What is that?”

“Chai tea.”

She stared at him just as blankly as she’d stared at the tea.

“You don’t like coffee,” he reminded her cheekily, in the hopes that it would bring a scowl to her face. He wasn’t disappointed.

“I didn’t order that,” she said stubbornly. “I ordered— ”

“Yes, yes.” Jaime affected a sigh. “Water, no lemon.” He slid the weeping glass onto the table. 

She frowned, watching the condensation bleed into the much-abused  _ Dragonknight _ activity sheet. After a moment she shifted the glass to her right, above an imaginary placemat. She’d already laid out the place settings, he noticed, fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right, napkin folded across her lap, although the other set of silverware lay crooked across the table, still wrapped in cloth.

“You can’t charge me for something I didn’t order,” she said finally. 

“I could try,” Jaime mused. “But it wouldn’t be worth the bad review, so this one’s on the house.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide and confused. Jaime blinked in surprise.  _ So the gods were good after all _ . Her eyes were as blue as gemstones, startlingly sincere. They were oddly alluring when they weren’t narrowed at him in suspicion.

Her fingers reached out to trace the rim, curling toward the heat of the tea. “I— ” 

“No need to thank me,” Jaime cut her off, giving her the grin he reserved family members he especially wanted to piss off. “It’s in the restaurant handbook. Free hot beverages for failed dates.”

She grimaced, but pressed on stubbornly. “Did you do this?” Her finger hovered above the mug, tracing swirls in the foam.

“Sorry, no. We have half a dozen Children chained to the coffee press. They’re in charge of latte art.”

“It’s pretty,” she insisted. Her tentative smile fled quickly enough, but its afterimage lingered stubbornly in his mind. “Thank you.”

Jaime blinked at her, then stepped abruptly away. “We wouldn’t want your blood sugar dropping before Mr. Average, Average, and Mysterious arrives. You’d pass out and crack your skull open, then sue Chataya’s for having floors harder than your head.”

Her mouth descended into a scowl that was quickly becoming familiar. She turned away, cradling the mug to her wide mouth. The aromatic steam kissed her face as she took a sip. A hum escaped her, so soft he might have dreamed it, and Jaime walked away without another word.

 

* * *

 

Laughter reverberated from the rafters, disrupting the low din of clinking forks and conversation. Jaime hoped whoever it belonged to wound up at the bar. That laugh said  _ former frat boy _ like a neon sign, and he wasn’t paid enough to play nice.

The kid who’d been giving him her order twisted onto her knees to peer over the booth. Her parents craned their necks, and Jaime glanced over his shoulder to find a tall man with an unruly red beard, standing in the aisle and laughing rudely. Jaime grimaced, turning back to the family. 

The rest of the scene registered in his mind, then, and he turned sharply on his heel. Freckles hunched gracelessly in her booth, still clearly visible over the high back. Even from across the restaurant, he could see her eyes glimmering wetly in the dim light of the lamps. Jaime was halfway to the booth before he knew he’d moved.

“ —get this over with,” the man was saying, making to slide in across from her. Jaime caught him by the shoulder, keeping him on his feet, and Freckles’ date startled. Jaime dodged an elbow that would have planted itself in his ribs. He gave the man a hard smile. 

“Welcome to Chataya’s,” he said. “I promise, the food’s worth the traffic.”

The other man relaxed. “Wasn’t so bad, actually. Wouldn’t mind a burger, though. Can you go ahead and put the order in?” He laughed, leaning in to share the joke. “I’m in a bit of a rush.” He nodded toward his date, who was so red she might have faded into the pleather. 

“Are you?” Jaime made a show of pulling out his phone and checking the time. “I’d say you owe Freckles at least as much time as she wasted waiting on you.”

“Brienne doesn’t mind.” The guy glanced at Freckles—at  _ Brienne _ —as if he couldn’t fathom her taking offense. 

“That’s  _ fifty-three _ minutes by my calculations,” Jaime continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

The idiot laughed again. “Been keeping track? Don’t worry, she won’t be scaring off your customers much longer.”

Jaime wondered if Father would intervene in the lawsuit if he broke this moron’s nose.  _ Even if he did, he’d leave Chataya’s to sink _ . He forced his fist to unclench. 

His looked at Brienne, waiting for her that glorious scowl to make its appearance. She shrunk further into the booth, clearly wanting nothing more than to melt into it.

Jaime’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Finally the moron stopped laughing. When he spoke, he sounded annoyed. “At least let us eat first. She’s been sitting here for an hour.”

_ I know _ . “And she’s welcome to stay,” Jaime said as flippantly as he could manage. “But unfortunately, Chataya’s has a strict ‘No Assholes’ policy.” The idiot was beginning to match his beard. Jaime gripped his arm, shaking his head in mock apology. “The union, you know?”

The man tried to shake him off, but Jaime twisted his arm, grip ironclad. With a last glance at Brienne—she made no objection—Jaime frogmarched the idiot to the door and ejected him into the street. 

“You might have better luck on dates if—” He shook his head. “No, I think you’re screwed. Or not, as the case may be.” 

“Yeah, right.” The asshole snorted. “Good luck getting it up for  _ that _ —” The door muffled the rest of his parting shot. He stalked to his motorcycle and drove off noisily.

A smattering of applause erupted. Jaime grimaced and made his way back to Brienne. Her breathing was ragged, nails digging crescents into the pleather seat. Jaime shifted awkwardly, not sure what to say. Somehow he didn’t think,  _ Text me his address and we can beat him up later _ , would fly.

“I hope you have better taste in food than you have in men.”

Her eyes shot to his, her incredulity plain. 

Jaime dug out his order pad and uncapped the pen noisily. “Welcome to Chataya’s.” The words were a gauntlet gleaming at her feet. “What can I get for you?”

For a moment he thought she might bolt. She stared past him, cataloguing the families and teens and single diners that slowly lost interest and returned to their meals. Finally her eyes met his. He stared back, fascinated as she rebuilt her resolve, brick by brick. 

Brienne straightened, spine threaded with steel. “What’s the house special?”

 

* * *

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Tyrion said, using a rag to push scattered coffee grounds to the floor. “The rush ended hours ago, and I’ve already stamped your Big Brother card.”

“And deprive you of my company?” Jaime reassembled the cappuccino maker by muscle memory alone, watching Brienne watch Podrick bus tables through the order window.

Tyrion shook his head. “Jaime, I won’t deny you put on a quite a show. We’ve already gotten two 5-raven reviews on Master of Whisperers. But if you don’t start thinking with your brain instead of your—” A crude smile danced across his face, but Tyrion checked his tongue, “— _ muscles _ , you’re going to put me out of business.” 

Jaime snatched the rag from his brother, whipping him just hard enough to sting. “That’s the last time I protect your reputation, ingrate.” 

Tyrion wrestled the rag back from him and chucked it down the counter, well out of reach. “Are you sure it’s  _ my _ reputation you’re worried about?” he asked drolly, checking  _ coffee station _ off the closing list. “You did buy her dinner.”

Jaime snorted. “Chataya’s bought her dinner.”

“Did we?” 

Jaime hummed agreement. “The other customers were getting distracted. It was a business decision.” 

“How good of you to care.” Dragging over the dish cart, Tyrion handed his brother mugs one-by-one, while Jaime stacked them dutifully above the espresso machine. “You’d think  _ you _ were the one getting a business degree at Father University.” 

“Their job placement is a little limited for my taste,” Jaime quipped. He watched Brienne unravel the scraggly braid that had slowly yielded to the torture of her fingers. Her hair fell free to hang limp and crimped around her shoulders. Jaime decided it suited her better than the braid.

Tyrion slid onto the counter and insinuated himself between Jaime and the window. He fixed his brother with a stare he’d perfected in Tywin Lannister’s  _ Intimidation Theory 101 _ . “My dear brother, despite what your ego would have you believe, the girl didn’t stick around so you could flirt with her.”

“She has a name,” Jaime said wryly. “And I’m not flirting with her. I’m  _ diverting _ her.”

Tyrion laughed so loudly that Podrick jumped, knocking a plate to the floor with his elbow. The sound caught Brienne’s attention, too. When her eyes locked with Jaime’s, she blushed, burying herself in the new activity sheet he’d brought her.

“Jaime.” Tyrion’s amused tones suggested that in this,  _ he _ was the brother older and wiser. “I know you’re severely lacking in reasonable experience, but that?” His gesture traced Jaime’s line of sight. “That’s called flirting.”

“Who’s side are you on, anyway?” Jaime grumbled.

“Why, hers, of course. Her dinner came out of my pocket, after all.”

He rolled his eyes. “If it means that much to you, I’ll pay you back.” 

“Alright,” Tyrion agreed, dropping back onto the stool, then down to the floor. “Send Yaya home. I  _ do _ have to pay her. Father will be pleased if I reduce overhead this quarter.” He pulled a face. “Presumably. And that leaves you free to flirt with the giantess until she pleads for mercy.”

“I told you, I’m not—”

Tyrion waved him off. “It’s no skin off my nose if you want to get laid, Jaime. Just send Yaya home. We’ll all be happier for it.”

Alayaya, at least, was happy to go. She’d been loitering by the bar, chatting with her mother, for the better part of an hour. She vanished with a speed that was frankly alarming, waving goodbye as she went.

“Here,” Chataya said to Jaime, sliding something fizzy and orange across the bar, “bring the poor girl a drink. She has the patience of a septa to put up with you on top of everything.”

_ Not you, too _ , Jaime thought sourly. 

“Why Taya, all this time I thought you liked me. Is it the hair?” He tossed his hair at her, making sure it caught the light. She laughed, reaching over to push a golden curl behind his ear. 

“Mine’s prettier.” Nudging the glass toward him, she winked, whirled, hummed a sweet tune as she set about organizing bottles.

Jaime combed his fingers through his hair, fixing what she hadn’t. Then he grabbed the glass from the bar. He didn’t want it, and there was no point in letting it go to waste. 

Brienne betrayed no hint of surprise when Jaime plopped the thing in front of her. He wondered if that meant he was becoming predictable.

“What’s this?” she asked, studying the garish orange drink suspiciously. But when she looked to him for an answer, the suspicion didn’t transfer.

A smile flirted with his lips, but he forced it down. “A peace offering from Chataya.” He nodded in the barkeep’s direction. “She thinks you deserve better company than me.”

Brienne laughed. It was short, unexpected, and over too soon. She buried her face in her drink to cover her embarrassment. “Thank her for me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on her side?” Jaime pressed a hand to his chest, pantomiming heartache. “Well . . . better to know now . . .”

“Than in twenty minutes when you close?” she deadpanned.

The old clock ticked behind the bar, louder than usual. “You know where I work,” he said, but the teasing lilt was lost in translation. 

She blinked, flushing, and covered her discomposure by taking a swig of her drink. When the fizz hit her throat, Brienne spluttered.

He slid in across from her, laughing. “Too strong?”

Brienne shook her head, still wheezing. “That’s  _ alcohol _ ,” she gasped, as if somehow the orange bubbles hadn’t clued her in. Massaging her chest, she pushed the glass away in favor of water.

“Yes, and?” A thought occurred to him, and his smile fell. “You  _ are _ legal, aren’t you?”

She gave him a strange look. “Yes.”

“Oh, good.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want our liquor license getting revoked.”

“I don’t drink much, that’s all” she muttered.

“ _ Really _ —?” he began, but Brienne bowled over him. 

“You said ‘our,’” she said quickly, a hair too loud. “Is this your restaurant?”

Jaime let her stew for a minute before giving her the out. “Are you implying that I’m lacking as a server?” 

She let out a distinctly unfeminine snort. He could practically see the evening replay behind her eyes—rude comments, lazy service, free meals; that whole business with the asshole she wasted half her night on. “Who in their right mind would hire you?” 

If she expected him to take offense, she was disappointed. Jaime’s laughter was loud and genuine. “You’re brighter than you look.” He ignored her sudden glower, reaching across the table for her drink. Sniffing it, he took a cautious sip. It wasn’t bad. 

“It’s my brother’s restaurant. Well,” he amended, “my father’s, technically. But Tyrion runs the place.”

“And you work for him?” From anyone at home, the question would been laced with eleven levels of disdain. Brienne’s eyes were clear, curious.

“Only when his waitress is hungover.” Jaime took another swig, enjoying the way the bubbles fizzed down his throat and bubbled in his chest. “You know, I think I’ll send her a gift basket,” he mused.

Her wide face collapsed in confusion, brows and lips and nose all scrunched together in a mass of freckles and pale skin. “Why?”

Jaime swirled the glass, listening to the ice clink. “If she weren’t such a devout worshipper of the porcelain gods, I wouldn’t have been here to defend your honor.” 

Brienne’s eyes shuttered, hanging a sign clear as day:  _ This hurts. Go away _ . She pressed back against the booth, fingers twisted together on the table, a mass of garish red and ghost white.

_ You jackass _ , Jaime thought,  _ she doesn’t want to be reminded of that. _

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she beat him to the punch. 

“Why?” she whispered.

He shrugged lamely, wishing he had something better to say. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just— ”

“No,” Brienne interrupted, twisting her fingers. The skin bloomed red, then white, and back to red. “I mean . . . why did you come over? You didn’t have to. You don’t know me. Nobody else . . .” She trailed off, looking awkward.

_ He was disrupting the peace _ , Jaime could have said.  _ That godsawful beard broke the fire code. We were fresh out of mops to sop up your tears. _

But what he said was, “You’re too good for that asshole.”

Denial scrawled plainly across her face, letter by letter. Jaime braced himself to argue—argue  _ what _ , exactly, he wasn’t sure—but she lapsed into silence. Jaime watched the ice melt, sinking into Chataya’s concoction. He told himself that when it was gone, it was time to go. The clock ticked, and the ice melted, and finally Brienne said, “Thank you,” so quietly he strained to hear.

Jaime nodded, looking away.

_ Tick _ went the clock.  _ Clink _ went the ice. 

Brienne sat back with a groan. “Ugh, what am I going to tell my father?”

“Your father?”

She grimaced, slumping into the corner. “He set me up with Ron. The son of a friend from work.”

Jaime snorted into his glass. “Your father has terrible taste in men.” 

“Believe me,” she said fervently, “I know.”

Jaime considered the problem, swirling his drink. He drained his glass. Pushed it out of the way, and didn’t stand to go. “You could tell him you have a second date.”

She gaped at him like he’d gone mad. “A second date? What—? How—?” She shook her head, jarring her tongue loose. “ _ Why _ would I want a second date?”

“Well that’s unfair,” Jaime said. He enjoyed watching the irritation flare on her face. “I think we had a decent evening, all in all. I know I kept disappearing to the kitchen. My latte art needs some work, I’ll admit. Everyone has flaws.” 

“That’s not funny,” she said stiffly.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He leaned forward, ignoring the cold as condensation from his glass seeped into his sleeve. “Are you free Saturday?”

Brienne didn’t answer. Jaime could hear Chataya restocking the bar, see Podrick in his peripherals, pretending to wipe down tables. He wondered if Tyrion was spying from the kitchen. 

_ She can’t seriously be this thick _ , Jaime thought as the silence stretched to breaking. He didn’t know why he was bothering.  _ She’s nothing to look at, and she’s not particularly interesting either _ . He wished his nerves would get the memo. 

At last, she reached a decision. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Good.” Jaime sat back too hard; the reverberation of the cushion springs set his teeth on edge. “I never offered it.” 

“Then what do you call this?” she demanded, gesturing between them. 

Jaime barked a laugh. “Flirting,” he admitted, resisting the urge to glance towards the kitchens. “You clearly need as much help with it as I do.” His smile was mocking. “But so you know for next time.”

Chataya was watching. He could feel her eyes from across the room.  _ She may have the patience of a septa, Chataya, but she has the Faith’s blind, pigheaded stubbornness, too _ .

He pushed out of the booth. It was closing time, with half the checklist left to be done. 

Brienne caught his hand. Her palm was broad, rough in places, but soft in others. It was warm, too, pliant in his. She looked almost as surprised as Jaime to find it there. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “that wasn’t fair.” Her breath stuttered in her throat, and Jaime remembered her ragged breaths when that idiot blathered on like she wasn’t there. “It’s been a long night.”

His fingers curled around hers with no prompting from him. “Sorry enough for that second date?” some other fool asked.

“It wouldn’t  _ be _ a second date,” she argued, eyes hopeful. “I’m free Saturday, though, if you want to catch a movie. No dinner,” she added with a wince.

Jaime considered, then affected a sigh. “No, I’m pretty sure dinner is a prerequisite.” 

He leaned forward, and Brienne rolled her eyes, tilting her head to hear what he had to say. Jaime closed the distance, lips brushing hers in the faintest of kisses. She trembled—or he did—for one heartbeat, two. 

He pulled away slowly, smiling his victory. “First kiss. First date.” 

Brienne failed to concede his point, but she did tug him down beside her, smiling shyly. Her eyes were bright, heart-stoppingly blue. She met him in a warm, hesitant kiss. 

“Alright,” Jaime conceded much later, as Tyrion came out to ruin their night. “We’ll try again on Saturday.”

**Author's Note:**

> getting back into the writing game and.  
> meh.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
